Reasons To Be Ignored
by MooseOnARoof
Summary: Sprung from my mind through a haze of boredom... House is ignoring Wilson and Wilson tries to find out why. Enjoy :D


_A/N Sprung from my mind through a haze of boredom. **Written in second person from Wilson's POV. **_**House is ignoring Wilson and Wilson tries to find out why.**

_Enjoy :D_

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You don't remember how long you've been asleep. You don't even remember falling asleep in the first place. What you do know is that you're cold, freezing cold in fact. It was the type of cold that could freeze the extremities off of the most experienced of Arctic animals. You can hear the TV blaring in the living room so you bellow at House several times to turn the temperature dial up but your calls aren't heeded.

You shout again and he doesn't answer so you clamber out of your bed to open the door. You find the door already open even though you're sure you had closed it. You always slept with your bedroom door closed. Peering into the living room you can see that House wasn't there; he wasn't perched on his usual sofa spot. You assume he's in the bathroom so you pad towards the dial on the wall and flick it up a few notches before heading back to your bedroom.

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You wake up and the clock tells you it's four-thirty in the morning. You're still freezing cold.

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You wake up the next morning to find House has already gone to work with not so much as a 'see you later' echoed through the door. So you get dressed in silence with only the occasional roar of a car disturbing the peace. Crisp clean white checked shirt fresh from the closet and a red striped tie. They didn't match but your ties and shirts never do. With the gentle tugging of the tie and a quick pat down of your stray hairs, you were ready to face the day. Another day of endless paperwork and meetings.

In the past week you've barely seen your patients. You know one had died but no one seemed to think it was important to page you about it. You only found out when you came to do your rounds and found an empty bed dressed up in clean sheets.

Your car still hadn't come back from the garage so you have no option but to use the public transport which was sporadic at best. To add to your woes the bus stop was heaving with people, meaning you, in all likelihood, would not get a seat and have to spent the entire trip with your head thrust up a giant man's sweaty armpit.

The bus arrives five minutes late as usual. People file onto the bus in front of you, some pushing from the back to get on before you. You let it slide, not wanting to cause unnecessary confrontation so early in the morning. The person in front of you needs a wide berth so you stand off the bottom step to allow them to shuffle themselves on. Just as your about to plant a foot the driver shuts the door leaving you stranded behind the grubby plastic and on the pavement. The bus begins to drive off so you pummel your fists on the side, urging him to stop. But he drives on, leaving you spluttering in the fumes.

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You're an hour late for your shift by the time you get through the automatic doors of PPTH. You politely smile at some of the nurses swooping around the reception area but most are too busy to smile back. If there was any justice Cuddy wouldn't notice you sneakily edging towards the elevator in order to avoid the inevitable 'where the hell have you been?' question. You turn to see if she has her gaze fixed firmly on her desk.

She's looking straight out of her office door. Into the reception. Right at you. But she doesn't move; she merely rubs her temples and puts her head back down to her whatever she was doing.

You breath a sigh of relief as the elevator doors slide open allowing you to step instead.

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House wasn't in his office when you pop your head around the glass door. Neither was his team. You check your watch and it tells you it's Wednesday. House doesn't do clinic on a Wednesday so he should be here or in your office annoying the hell out of you.

You shrug off House's absence and head into your office which has been neatened up since you were here yesterday. You remind yourself to tell Cuddy that the cleaner is doing a good job. After dumping your jacket and briefcase, you take a seat behind your desk and begin the long trawl through the items in your out box tray. Referral followed by referral followed by referral. You weren't even sure why you were referring all these patients on but the e-mail sent by Cuddy told you to do so.

_Donaldson, _Andrew. You flip open the file to find the referral form already filled in and stamped by Dr. Richards. You stare at the sheet, a mixture of confusion and bemusement falling over your face. You don't remember giving this to Richards, nor do you remember Richards having the right to stamp the referrals. You were the department head, that was your job.

You toss the file back into the tray and pick out another. You find, once again, the referral form stamped and signed by Richards. So you flick through the rest in the stack and yield the same result. All filled, signed and stamped without your oversight. You're going to have to talk to Cuddy about this.

It's only when you lean back in your chair that the cold hits you again. Seems like it's not just your apartment that's like an icebox. Your office doesn't have it's own personal temperature dial so you'll have to just grin and bear it.

Without warning and seemingly from nowhere, House barges into your office. You squint and await his usual barbed greeting but it doesn't come. He just stands in front of you, his gaze centred towards the balcony door before eyeing up the rest of your office. You look at him with a gormless look on your face, waiting for him to acknowledge you.

It's not the fact that he doesn't say anything that worries you; it's not the slightly accentuated limp you noticed as he hobbled in, nor is it the scruffier than normal nature of his clothes. It's that colour. The angry, glowing, hue of red that is running around the rims of House's eyes.

He'd been crying.

"House what's wrong?" He's still not looking at you. He's a mute, a stone statue planted firmly in place. "House!"

He doesn't answer but instead he turns on his heels and limps out of your office. You grab your jacket and follow him down the corridor. "House!" He hops into the elevator before you manage to catch up and even though you aggressively punched the button, the elevator doors still glide shut in your face.

You run towards the staff staircase to try and catch up on lost ground. By the time you've made it down the numerous flights of stairs House is already past the reception desk. "House!"

You don't catch him up until he is in the parking lot. He is fumbling with his car door as you scream his name. He's still not answering so you get in his car. You weren't going to let him go anywhere on his own; not when he looked like this.

House started that car. You didn't care that you had bailed out of work and that you had no idea where you were going. House needed you.

"House talk to me. What's wrong?" You look at him, pleading for him to talk. He says nothing, only an audible sigh escapes his lips and you watch as the steam from his breath curls into the ether. "House! What the hell?" You can see his knuckles whiten on his red raw fingers as he clenches the steering wheel.

He stops the car and gets out before you can even react. You slide yourself out and slam the door shut. You survey your surroundings, causing your eyebrows to furrow and crease in the middle. Why the hell had he brought you here?

You follow in his wake as he hobbles down the row, through the perfectly aligned stones and patches of freshly laid turf. An occasional burst of colour from a flower disturbs the green and white monotony.

You see him stop dead and bow his head before bursting into tears and dropping his cane in the process. "House!" You run the last few metres to stand by him and you place a hand on his arm but he twitches away. He glances at his shoulder before gently rubbing the patch where you had touched. You don't understand so you look at his eyes for answers but you find nothing. Just pain. Pure unadulterated pain.

He glances back down to the turf beneath. You follow his lead.

You weren't sure if a body could truly run cold until this very second. You feel like your heart is literally in the back of your throat. You're scared to try and breath in case you find it impossible. You're stiff but lifeless. You can't move. You can't speak. All you can do is stare at the stone in front of your eyes.

_James Evan Wilson _

_1968-2009_

_Beloved son, friend and brother._

You don't remember this. You don't remember this at all.

You don't remember the twisted wreck of a car you were pulled from. You don't remember the impact of hitting a solid brick wall. You don't remember swerving your car to avoid hitting a children playing double dutch on the road. You don't remember driving.

You don't remember dying.


End file.
